Harry Potter and the End of Trees
by You're either Amy or jealous
Summary: Draco and Hermione are Head Boy and Girl. Do they survive seventh year? Do they kill each other, fall in love, or become indifferent? Read to find out. This story has multiple authors.
1. Chapter 1 Draco

Draco opened his window to the owl hovering outside. Taking the package from it, he tossed a couple of owl treats its way and didn't bother to look up as it gulped them down and left. Scanning the letter, his eyes focused primarily on the following sentences:

"Congratulations on earning the position of Head Boy. Your partner for the year, the Head Girl, will be none other than Miss Hermione Granger." He snorted in disgust. Just as he'd expected. He gave no more than a cursory glance at the rest of the letter, which included the list of what he would need for the upcoming year, a list of the first years and new kids, and an explanation of his duties as Head Boy.

He threw the letter onto his four poster and reached for the package. Draco tore it open and a shiny silver badge tumbled into his lap. Examining it closely, he discovered a tiny intricate serpent curled around the word "HOGWARTS" engraved at the top of the miniature shield shaped pin. Under that were the words "HEAD BOY." He flipped it over to discover his name carved elegantly into the back. His full name.

"Draco James Malfoy," he whispered. He had always hated his name, denying to everyone his middle name especially. It reminded him of what his family had been, before everything with Voldemort and - it was best not to get into that. He blinked his eyes and rose out of what could almost be called a trance. He glanced at the name once more andcursed, throwing the badge down next to the letter and picking up the rest of the package. Out fell a ring of keys, presumably to mysterious dread portals at Hogwarts, and an invisibility cloak. Now that caught his interest.

He detached the note pinned to the cloak and read "To be used appropriately as necessary. On loan for the year. –A.D." He felt almost disappointed. Invisibility cloaks were extremely rare, and he didn't even dare to bring his own to Hogwarts in case it was confiscated. But now Dumbledore had given him one to be used expressly at school…

He imagined the fun he would have patrolling in it. He would walk the halls silently, hoping to catch any younger students out and about. He'd approach them, not bothering to hide, for they wouldn't be able to see him. Then, as soon as they were about to walk into him, he would whisk the cloak aside and loom over their bewilderment, basking in the confusion and fear on their faces as he deducted point after point and gave out multiple detentions. Oh, the joy of power!

He grinned, folding the cloak and laying it carefully on his pillow. Maybe this year wouldn't be so bad after all, even if he did have to work with Granger. His mood clouded as he remembered her. What an annoying bitch. Smarty-pants, know-it-all… he had to work to be able to keep up with her grades in class, and he hated the idea. If having pure blood made you so much superior, why did he have to work so hard? And it was almost too difficult to conceal the fact that he worked to be her equal. He loved the impression he gave off, of knowing everything automatically and never working. Little did the rest of Hogwarts know that he toiled over his homework late at night and on week-ends, when the castle was dormant and still.

He sat on the edge of his bed, remembering all the petty conflicts that had occurred between the Gryffindors and the Slytherins over the years, laying his memories out before him like photographs on a table. There was the time in first year he challenged Potter to a wizard's duel, and the time Hermione hauled off and punched him in the face… he flinched at the memory and didn't realize he'd raised his hand to his cheek until he grazed it with the tips of his fingers.

He did enjoy the challenge, of course, he mused. He'd be incessantly bored without the necessity of thinking up ways to outsmart them. He smiled as he recalled the anger that danced across their faces every time he faced Potter, Weasley and Granger. What fun.

He got up and hauled his trunk out of the closet. Time to pack.


	2. Chapter 2 Hermione

Hermione strode purposefully through King's Cross Station, and tried hard to ignore the whispers that followed her. It wasn't her over-laden cart that attracted the attention, and the way one of front wheels squeaked, but the large and unsightly scar at the corner of her left eye -- a lovely gift from Bellatrix Lestrange.

It was a raised scar, red and still sensitive, fanning outwards and upwards into her hairline. Quite frankly, Hermione was grateful that the sickly yellow spell-beam hadn't taken out her eye, or worse. She still wasn't sure what the spell had been, but what if it was supposed to somehow… No. She wasn't going to think about the what if's.

It was no good to dwell on that sort of thing. Hermione snarled quietly at herself, and a Muggle a good three meters away paled considerably and hurried off in the other direction.

Chagrined, because she certainly didn't mean to go around scaring people due to her own inability to think clearly, Hermione quickened her steps towards Platform 9 ¾. She paused only long enough to ensure that no one was continuing to stare after her then fell casually into the brick wall.

As usual, Hermione was the first person to await the train. She didn't mind, as the time alone let her think quietly. Her thoughts wandered before settling onto the familiar question of what exactly _had_ that awful woman thrown at her? Hermione was positive that it hadn't been an Unforgivable Curse… Sighing, Hermione wished for the umpteenth time that she could have heard the words. Then the matter would be to simply find the correct book, and what with her own invisi—

"Hermione! Blimey –" And then Ron was sweeping her into a crushing hug. He finally let go after she started making gurgling noises deep within her chest; really, the boy could forget his strength sometimes. Ron moved out of the way, still beaming at her, so Harry could get his hug. Hermione had to stand on her toes in order to wrap her arms around his neck, but he stood woodenly, unresponsive.

She reluctantly let go. It wasn't that she was attracted to him or anything of that sort, they were only friends, but Harry had changed a lot since the final meeting with Voldemort. He was angry now, and moody more often than not. And always bitter.

Ginny stood a few paces away, talking quietly with Neville; Hermione waved and gave a slight grin to show she was happy to see them, then turned her attention back to Ron and Harry.

"—up, things will get better," Ron was saying. Harry had a scowl on his face. Hermione decided that she needed to intervene.

"So you guys came to the station together?"

Unexpectedly, Harry was the one to answer. "Yeah. I mean, once Voldemort was gone, what point was there in living with my relatives? Rotten people." He continued frowning, and to stare off at some point above and to the right of Hermione's head.

Ron gave a weak smile. "So my mum invited him to our house for the summer. Fred and George were hell though-," Ron raked a hand through his hair, "they kept wanting to do tests on him, see if they could bottle the special properties they claimed Harry had."

Harry's scowl deepened. "They bloody tried to poison my breakfast." He shrugged angrily, showing his irritation.

Ron blanched. "Now Harry, they didn't mean--! I'm sure they had the antidote, you know how they are –"

Harry turned his cold gaze on Ron, who turned red under all his freckles then eventually quieted in his defense of his brothers.

"So, how was your summer, Hermione?" Harry asked offhandedly.

She couldn't stop the sarcasm from dripping into her voice. "Oh, fabulous. St. Mungo's is a real blast, you should try going as a patient sometime. '_Now drink _this_ potion, dear_,' and, '_Oh, not feeling hungry today, are we? They'll take away your privileges if you don't finish the pudding!_' I almost rotted." Hermione bit off the last word angrily, glad to get it out of her system but at the same time concerned that she might have somehow upset Harry.

But Harry smiled faintly. "Excellent, then we all had truly amazing summers."

Ron tried to break in, "Harry, mine wasn't too bad—"

"Oh, shut it, we both know you were bloody miserable." Ron pressed his lips together firmly, and Hermione was strongly reminded of Percy. But better not to mention him. Ron then opened his mouth to say something rude, and Hermione cut him off quickly.

"Let's try to not get in a row now, hey? The train isn't even here yet."

"But it's coming now," Ron muttered darkly. Hermione patted his shoulder consolingly and whispered to him as the train pulled in, so Harry wouldn't hear:

"It's been tough for all of us, now, but Harry's had the worst of it."

Ron's face softened. "Yeh," he said, after a moment. Then he brightened, and said in a more normal-toned voice, "You're not so bad after all, Hermione."

"Thanks," she responded dryly.

The train lurched to a halt and a loud screech, and Hermione and Ron dutifully followed Harry onto the nearest car. Harry hurled his trunk onto the holdings, then did the same with Ron's and Hermione's. Ron carefully hung Hedwig's cage and Pig's onto hooks next to the window.

As Ron and Harry settled into their seats, Hermione stood leaning against one of the doors, worrying her upper lip. "Save me a seat, will you? I have to go to the front for a bit."

They waved her away and began a game of wizarding chess.

As Hermione made her way to the front, she absent-mindedly ushered first-years into compartments and answered their questions. Her mind was actually focused on Harry and Ron… Harry had emotional trauma, that much was obvious. But how was she going to help him if he refused, something he was very likely to do? She scowled slightly, not caring about her scar or if she frightened any students. And Ron. He had taken on a subservient role to Harry, and that certainly wasn't healthy for either one of them.

Hermione tugged gently at her coarse hair and sighed. The war was finally over, classes hadn't even started, and already her problems were lining themselves up for the next year. She entered the deserted last car only to realize that it really was the last car at the very end of the train. Biting off a curse, she whirled around to stomp to the front of the train when something bright caught her attention.

She took her wand out of her coat pocket in case her suspicions were right and cautiously approached the second-to-last compartment. Taking a deep breath, she stepped in front of the closed glass doors.

And there was that rat Malfoy, cornering some poor girl. Hermione's scowl deepened. It was just like him to be up to his dirty scheming on _the - very – first - day!_ She rapped sharply on the glass with her knuckles, startling Malfoy into jumping away from his prey.

He turned to face the person who had interrupted him. _Probably hoping to cuss someone out – "How dare you interrupt the Head Boy!"_ Hermione thought. She had to work very hard at keeping a smirk off her face as Draco realized it was none other than the Head Girl who had startled him.

"We're needed up front, Draco," was all she said before she began her long trek towards the front of the train. It was pure luck that she had found where Draco had been lurking. Regardless, Hermione was grateful that she didn't have to waste more time in having to go look for him, as she had already wasted enough time in going in the wrong direction.

She was less than halfway to the front when she realized she had made a very big mistake: never turn your back on your enemy. Hermione didn't quite break into a cold sweat, but it was close. Surely he wouldn't try anything with so many people around? But who would stop him? So many members of the D.A. had died or been grievously injured during the war, and there were no teachers on the train, what had she gotten herself –

"Nice scar, Granger," his voice oozed behind her. Hermione almost sighed in relief that he had chosen to not attack her. He sidled up next to her. "Is having a scar on the face the new trend? I mean, I know Potter's had one for ages, but I never thought you would be one to –"

"Shut up, Malfoy. Just, for once in your bloody life, set a good model." When he said nothing, Hermione glanced over at him to ensure that he wasn't going to hex her only to see his narrow, rodent-like face contorted into a furious snarl. Well, it was a step better than having him try to kill her.

They were both silent for the rest of the way as they arduously pushed their way forward. Hermione was contemplating what to go over with the prefects; Malfoy was probably considering various ways to humiliate her.

When they finally reached the front car, all of the prefects were waiting for them. Hermione cleared her throat in an embarrassed fashion, as she hated being late. Before she could begin speaking, Malfoy cleanly began.

"I'm Draco Malfoy, Head Boy, and this is Hermione Granger, Head Girl. Don't mind her scar now – her bark is worse than her bite." Hermione glared at him as he leered at the prefects, of which some tittered uncertainly.

She decided to ignore his insult. But inside she raged. How dare he undercut her authority! She covered up a strangled noise by coughing.

"Congratulations on being raised as prefects." It was difficult to pretend cheerfulness, but Hermione made a good show of it. "Your duties begin now. Other students will accept your authority more readily if you immediately change into your robes and don your badges."

Malfoy cut in. "Of course, you could always just mar your face a bit, like Granger here, and then –"

"Please forgive Draco, as he ate something that disagreed with him." But Hermione could feel the blood rushing to her face in embarrassment. How _could_ he? She held her head up high, though. "Your duties for now will be to make occasional checks of the students, to make sure they are behaving. Report to me; I'm in Car 5, Compartment C. Malfoy should be … around. When we reach Hogwarts, gather the first-years and show them where to go. You are dismissed for now."

The prefects filed out noisily, excited. Hermione rounded on Draco. "Don't ever do that again. Ever."

"What?" His insolent grin made her sick. "Talk about your lovely scar? Granger, don't you like your scar? Now you look just like--!"

_Crack_. Her hand, his cheek. Hermione knew that it had felt too good. She couldn't resort to physical violence all the time. "Undercut my authority again, and I will have Dumbledore replace you. And it can be done, Malfoy."

The smirk was gone from his face. Hot anger bubbled dangerously behind his slate-gray eyes. "Don't hit me again."

"Don't undercut my authority." Hermione stood straighter, though at most this offered less than an inch over Malfoy.

They were both silent for a few minutes.

"Fine," he snarled. And he stalked out of the car.

Hermione stood there for a while yet, breathing deeply and fingering her scar. Then she, too, left, and headed for Car 5, Compartment C, so that the prefects would be able to find her.

Ron and Harry had abandoned their game, and the pieces shouted angrily at them to continue. But the trio sat in silence. The end of Voldemort had not made their lives any easier or simpler, as they had once expected.


	3. Chapter 3 Draco

Draco could hardly believe it was the same Hermione Granger that he had teased for six long years that had interrupted what was to be his first make-out session of the year. She wasn't fun to tease at all any more, all serious and angsty. _I'd probably get depressed just asking for the Potions homework, _he thought.

And who the hell gave her that scar? That was no ordinary mark, if he wasn't mistaken. He guessed it was the _Intersapienta _curse. He'd never actually seen it, but he'd gotten some pretty detailed explanations when he'd taken that extra credit Charms class the previous year. Thinking back, it was odd that Hermione hadn't been there. She probably knew all the spells anyway, Draco mused, and so Professor Flitwick let her skip it. Honestly, the girl had almost every credit available.

Speaking of that Potions homework... Draco rose from his bed, where he'd been staring at the painted ceiling, deep in thought. He opened the door marked "Slytherin Common Room" and descended the stone stairway. He found himself behind a suit of armor. Damn. He'd forgotten he was no longer a resident of the dormitory. Instead he was privileged to have the luxurious Head Boy's chambers, seeing as he was indeed the Head Boy.

He untangled himself from the pile of armor on the floor, trying to preserve his dignity. Fortunately nobody had seen him fall clumsily and loudly with the armor to the floor. Draco stepped over the helmet. House elves would clean it up later.

"Goyle," he said, "What was our Potions homework Professor Snape assigned over the summer?" Draco leaned against the cool stone wall of the dungeon, waiting for a response from the larger boy.

"I believe we were required to compose a three foot essay on the uses of aconite, also known as wolfsbane or monkshood in birth control potions, as well as other methods of magical birth control," responded Gregory "Gargoyle" Goyle without looking up from his incredibly advanced Arithmancy textbook. "Do you mind? I really must be concentrating on these problems now. I've only got four left."

"Sure, yeah," Draco said quickly, "But I've just got one more question. Do you remember last year in Extra Charms when we learned about the _Intersapienta_ curse?"

Goyle dragged his gaze reluctantly away from his textbook. "Yes, of course," he said, irritably. "The _Intersapienta_ curse is black magic. The intelligence of the victim of this spell slowly drains away until said victim is too stupid to live. Whoever cast the spell accumulates the knowledge of the victim in a Pensieve. This includes memories, information, instincts... the works. Why do you need to know?"

"Oh, no reason," lied Draco. It sounded like just the thing someone would try to do to Hermione. "Do you know how fast the process occurs?"

Goyle shrugged. "Depending on the intellect of the person, it changes. If you've got a really smart victim, it can take as long as five years. If the victim is really stupid… well, you should be able to guess."

Draco smiled wanly. "Thanks," he said.

"No problem," said Goyle, and went back to working. Draco stayed for a moment, mesmerized by the quill fairly flying across the parchment, before disappearing behind the tumbledown suit of armor again. He reached his room and kicked off his shoes, flopping back onto his bed. His thoughts drifted to Hermione again. He almost felt bad for mocking her so cruelly on the train. _She deserved it_, he reminded himself angrily. _You can't suddenly start being nice to her. That bitch had it coming. She should learn to be nicer to him._

A voice interrupted his anger. "She _was_ nice to you. You started it." Draco sat up, looking around wildly. Where was that voice coming from? And how was it reading his mind?

It chuckled. Had he been less upset, Draco would have been able to recognize the voice as his own. "I'm your Conscience," it said gleefully. "This is my favorite part of the whole year with you, you know," it added. "When you don't know what I am and you think you've gone nuttier than squirrel shit." Draco wrinkled his nose.

"Before you think anything else, let me introduce you," the voice said quickly. "Your name is Draco Malfoy, you're 17 years old and Head Boy, you're from Slytherin House and your father was a –"

"Bastard!" Draco shouted. "My father was a _bastard_!"

"That's what I was going to say," replied the voice silkily. "I _can_ read your mind, you know. I'm practically part of it."

"Who are you?" Draco asked stubbornly. He refused to believe that it could possibly be his conscience. "And where have you been hiding all my life?" he muttered.

The voice laughed again. "I told you, I'm your Conscience. That's with a capital C. I'm built into these very walls, and I have been helping Head Boys choose right from wrong since 1879. Basically, I read your mind, and read the part of the script you'd rather keep silent."

"Do you ever shut up?" grumbled Draco. He wasn't about to let some talking walls bother him.

"Only if you're already making the right choices," said the voice cheerfully. "By the way, you really will go crazy if you keep referring to me as "that bloody voice," so you can call me Anson."

"Anson?" asked Draco, intrigued in spite of himself. "Why Anson?"

"Just my favorite Head Boy. Now there was a boy that needed guidance. How he got the job of Head Boy, I'll never know. The headmaster probably felt the boy could use my constant assistance better than anyone else in that year." Draco was offended. Did Dumbledore choose him as Head Boy for that?

"No," said Anson patiently. "You were chosen because you were the best for the job. You've seen the other boys in your year, haven't you?" Draco stifled a laugh at that. He felt himself beginning to like Anson against his will. He supposed that was the whole point. He wondered if there was a Conscience in the Head Girls quarters.

"Sure there is," said Anson generously. "Nobody's perfect."

Draco decided he didn't like the idea of anyone reading his thoughts. He ignored Anson and tried to fall asleep, gazing at the ceiling of his room once more. His bed was in the center of the five-walled room, surrounded by his unpacked trunks. He wondered where the rest of the fabulous furniture every Head Boy had always raved about was. Surely they weren't expecting him to live out of his trunk all year.

Painted on the floor was a star, reaching from corner to corner of the room. He recognized it as one of the oldest symbols of witchcraft and wizardry. There were no real walls to this room, now that he came to look at them. Each wall consisted of five doors, all labelled. He saw signs for each of the four House common rooms, in their respective House colors. There was one door labelled "Great Hall," one labelled "kitchens," one for the office of every faculty member. Draco smiled. He could get anywhere from this room. His gaze fell upon the door labelled Loft.

He hopped out of bed, interested. He'd never heard of a loft in Hogwarts. He pulled his wand out of his pocket with one hand, rumpling his hair with the other. Flinging the door open, he was disappointed to discover a simple closet with a silver sphere mounted on the back wall. Draco had been expecting perhaps a balcony outdoors, or a staircase.

He leaned forward to inspect it. Hesitantly, he laid his hands on the cool silver ball, and the door of the closet swung shut behind him. Shit! That was always a bad sign. _Maybe now the floor will drop out from under me,_ he thought wildly, _and I'll discover a room full of skeletons of all the other Head Boys, and... and..._

"Shut up," said Anson disgustedly. "You big baby. Go on, open the door."

Trembling, Draco opened the door to discover a different room. Gone were his trunks and bed. Instead, a rather large and beautiful mahogany wardrobe was back to back with a matching desk. A comfy armchair waited for Draco to curl up with a book next to a giant fireplace, in which a small but warm fire burned merrily. That was the only wall not covered with doors here. Draco stumbled out of the tiny closer, blinking in the sun shining through the gorgeous skylights installed in the ceiling. He looked around at the labels on these doors, observing Head Boy Bathroom among them.

That reminded him. He was dying for a shower. He ran back into the closet, pulling the door shut after him. He reopened it. No luck. He was still looking at the wardrobe and desk.

He remembered touching the silver ball and whirled around, practically ripping the thing off the wall. Draco heard the door slam behind him and delighted, spun and pushed the door open again. He was back in his bedroom. He grabbed his two trunks and attempted to heave them into the closet, nearly giving himself a hernia in the process, but managing to get them into the closet. He touched the hat and -whoosh- back to his desk.

He heaved at the handle of one of his trunks, failing to move it. "You can use magic, you know," said Anson, sounding amused. He nearly gave Draco a heart attack.

"You – you're here too?" Draco gasped, picking himself up from where he'd fallen backwards.

"Yes, of course. I told you, didn't I, I'm built into the walls. That means all the walls in Hogwarts. I follow you wherever you go." Anson was obviously enjoying this too much. "There's no escape."

Draco shrugged, pulling out his wand. "_Wingardium Leviosa!_" he said, conducting his trunks one after the other over to his desk. "_Alohomora-_" and they sprang open. "_Accio toiletries_," and the dark green bag containing everything he'd need in the bathroom flew out of the trunk and straight into Draco's arms.

"I hope you haven't got eyes," said Draco nastily. "I wouldn't want you to watch me shower and dress." Surprisingly, there was no response.

Draco opened the door labelled Head Boy Bathroom, and discovered a silver shower head mounted on the wall. He touched it, and the door slammed shut. "Oh," he said out loud before turning around. "Another one of these." He exited the closet and gasped. The bathroom before him was absolutely magnificent. A white porcelain sink was set into a green marble counter, backed by a fabulously huge mirror. A white toilet was nestled in the corner, opposite to a large white porcelain bathtub slash shower. The walls and floor were tiled in matching green marble.

Draco crossed the room almost tiptoeing, and dumped the contents of his bag on the counter. He caught his reflection in the mirror and stopped to check himself out. _Perfect hair... check. Flawless face... check. Conscience on his shoulder... check. Giant biceps... wait. Conscience?_

Sure enough, an angelic miniature Draco was perched on his shoulder in the mirror. Draco stared. Mini Draco smirked and said "You can't escape. I told you."

"Anson?" Draco said, surprised.

"Who else?" said the tiny boy. He was about six inches tall, and bore every resemblance to Draco from the messy blonde hair and storm grey eyes to well toned muscles and dragon tattoo on his arm. Instead of Hogwarts school robes, though, Anson wore a pair of Muggle jeans and a black t-shirt with a giant silver C emblazoned on the front. "The C's for Conscience," he explained. Turning around, he indicated the back, which read "Head Boy" across his shoulder blades and the number 126 lower down, like a Muggle sports jersey.

Other than the outfit and obviously their sizes, the only difference between the two was the halo Anson sported. It glowed yellow, bringing out the blonde in Anson's hair. As Draco stared into the mirror, he watched Anson hop off his shoulder and land on the counter. He looked down, expecting to see a real miniature version of himself strolling between his shampoo and his deodorant, but there was nobody there.

"I only exist visually in mirrors," said Anson. "And only you and the Head Girl can see me. You can see her Conscience, too. And hear her."

"Oh good," said Draco weakly. _I _have_ gone mad, _he thought. So he ripped off all his clothes and grabbed his showering stuff. Drawing the shower curtain shut behind him, he turned the water on. Maybe the damn thing would go away if he ignored it for long enough.

"Nope," said Anson cheerfully. Draco screamed.


	4. Chapter 4 Draco

_Shit, shit, where the fuck is my badge?_ Draco thought frantically, patting his pockets and searching the room. _I just had it, I know I did, what did I do with it?_

"Anson," he said, barely containing the frustration in his voice, "do you know what I did with my badge?"

"Can't you remember anything?" Anson retorted. "I'm your Conscience, not your baby-sitter or your mother. I'm only supposed to know the things you do."

"But you know that's not true," cajoled Draco, fumbling through the piles of paperwork on his desk. "You know lots more than I do. Please?"

Anson sighed, clearly unwilling to help. "You left it on the counter after your shower last night," he said petulantly.

Draco smacked his forehead. "Of course! Thanks, Anson, you're a real pal," he said, rushing through the door marked "Head Boy Bathroom." He touched the silver shower head and _slam!_ He was in the bathroom closet.

Draco grabbed the badge lying innocently on the counter and attempted to pin it quickly on his chest. "Shit," he growled as he stuck himself. Finally he managed to attach it, albeit crookedly, and rushed back to his study.

"You're late for that meeting," Anson said. "You promised not to be late and you are."

"I know!" yelled Draco. He looked wildly around the room at all the doors until his eyes came to light on "Professor McGonagall's Office." He pulled the door open violently and grabbed the silver lion's head mounted on the wall of the tiny closet. He rather liked the whole idea of not running through the corridors but instead popping up around the school wherever he needed to be. If only he'd known about these as a younger student, he felt he truly could have put them to good use.

Draco stumbled out of the transporter, as he had come to think of them, and almost tripped over the threshold of the door. "Sorry," he gasped, regaining his balance and his breath. "Couldn't find my badge –"

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, that will do," Professor McGonagall said smoothly. "You are only a couple minutes late, I think we can excuse you this time. Now, if you will take your seat I shall commence the meeting."

Draco was secretly horrified at the looks of concealed amusement in the faces of the prefects as he went to sit down. Something was nagging at the back of his mind... Where was Hermione? She was Head Girl, what if something had happened to her, is that why they were here? These thoughts tumbled through his head like socks in a washing machine, even if he didn't quite understand what a washing machine was.

Then he realized what he was thinking, and he remembered who he was. Who cared if the Mudblood couldn't take care of herself?

"You do," said Anson.

"Do not," Draco muttered inaudibly.

"Do too."

"No way," Draco whispered, louder this time. The prefects on either side of him looked at him strangely. They'd heard he was a bit weird, but not like this.

"Mr. Malfoy, do you have something you would like to say to the rest of us?" asked McGonagall, irritated at being interrupted.

"What?" Draco said, baffled.

"Please keep your objections to yourself, Mr. Malfoy, unless they are relevant to the topic at hand," she said frostily. Draco was surprised. He hadn't thought she had started talking yet.

_Leave me alone,_ he thought meanly at Anson. Barrett Urien, a stuck up Ravenclaw fifth year on Draco's left, snickered at the face Draco was unintentionally making. Draco didn't notice. Bellona Swithin, a sixth year Slytherin who adored Draco, glared at Barrett. Draco didn't notice.

"Hey, genius," Anson said. "Try paying attention. Your teacher called this meeting for a reason." Draco snapped out of his trance, guiltily. He started paying attention, and became more and more dismayed with each bit of information he learned.

"As Prefects, you all must plan the social events this year will hold in store for yourselves and the rest of the student body. In the pasts, events have included Halloween, Yule, and end-of-school balls; organized field trips to various parts of the world, such as beaches, malls, and the like; concerts of famous and local wizarding musical groups, stand up comedians, and plays; open mic nights; Muggle movie nights, and much more."

Several students started whispering excitedly to each other. This earned them a stern look from McGonagall, who continued when they were silent again. "It is up to you to decide, and with the guidance of your loyal Head students, plan and execute fun and safe events for the rest of Hogwarts. Please note that you must propose your ideas to me before following through." The prefects gave a collected groan at this.

"It's not like they could possibly get away with half the things they think of," said Anson quietly. "You should have a look inside their heads, it's really rather amusing."

_I said leave me alone,_ thought Draco, but he didn't mean it. He actually had gotten used to Anson, after spending a whole three weeks with him commenting on everything Draco did. He'd even heard Hermione's Conscience once or twice, but not very often. Hermione seemed to be already perfect, untouchable. Practically nothing she ever did deserved rebuke. He was sort of .. no, scratch that. He was extremely jealous of her. She had always been a teacher's pet, a know-it-all, part of the Golden Trio; he yearned to be her superior in one thing, just one thing.

Coming back to reality with a jolt, he looked around and saw that everyone else had already left. Professor McGonagall had turned her attention to a collection of essays from her third years. Draco stood, and walked up to her desk. He paused, awkwardly.

"Umm.." he began. The professor looked up.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" she said crisply, not unkindly. Her voice softened. "Miss Granger is fine," she said. Draco gaped.

Anson sighed. "No, she can't read minds."

Professor McGonagall continued. "She is in the infirmary having her scar checked out by Madam Pomfrey. We still do not know the spell that was cast, and until we can find out more about it, we are taking every precaution."

"It looked like the _Intersapienta_ curse," blurted Draco, and then looked horrified.

"Ahh, good for you," said Anson approvingly. "I didn't even have to suggest that to you. You're getting better at this sort of thing, you know."

Professor McGonagall adjusted her glasses and looked closer at the boy. "Is there, perhaps, anything you would like to share, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked carefully.

Draco bristled. "Are you suggesting –" he was cut off by Anson.

"Don't start a fight, you idiot, she's concerned. You have nothing to hide anyway," his Conscience growled. "Trust me on that one."

"I apologize," Draco said. "From what I could see, all signs point to the _Intersapienta_ curse. We learned about that last year in Extra Charms," he added quickly. The _Intersapienta_ curse was black magic, and very complicated. He didn't think any student could possibly pull it off.

Then again, he knew for a fact that some of the older Slytherin students had joined the ranks of the Dark Lord a couple years ago, before the final war, and his father had returned home with amazing stories of the power of young people these days, won't it be wonderful when Draco can join too, we'll show those Mudbloods… Draco had made a good show out of agreeing with his father, but deep down inside he wasn't sure if what his father was doing was right. He had always had unshakeable faith in his father, but ever since he came to Hogwarts, vague doubts had begun to riddle his mind.

He flopped down on his bed, not even noticing that he had just walked out of the professor's office without a word. He focused his eyes on the ceiling. "How did I get here?" he wondered out loud.

Anson said, "You walked."

Unpinning his badge, he began to play with it. He rubbed his name, Draco James Malfoy, engraved on the backside of it. Not for the first time, he wished his life had turned out differently. He remembered the stories his father used to tell him when he was young, about the good times he used to have with James Potter, until he'd been backstabbed by Potter, betrayed. Draco often wondered what had actually happened between the two. He definitely didn't believe his father's account of the story, which had become more and more twisted as Draco got older. Draco had never dared ask anyone. _Potter probably doesn't even know,_ he thought. _Why would he want to know that his father and the father of his childhood rival were best friends?_

Was there anyone who would know? Someone had to. Involuntarily, his thoughts turned to the one person that always knew everything.

Draco groaned. "I haven't seen her at all in the past three weeks," he said. "Where does she hide? I barely see her in class."

"Maybe she doesn't want people to mock her," Anson suggested.

"Why would they do that?" Draco wrinkled his nose. He rolled over onto his wand. "Ow! Who the fuck left that there?" he yelled, extracting the wand from his side.

"You –" Anson began.

"Don't even say it!" Draco yelled. "I know I left it there," he said, in a more normal tone. "What were we talking about?"

"You asked why Hermione is scared of people mocking her," Anson said.

"Oh yeah," Draco said thoughtfully.

"Maybe it's-" Anson was cut off again.

"That's a big scar, too," Draco said, seemingly ignoring his Conscience. "It's not a little job like what Potter's got. It covers practically half of the side of her head." He yawned.

"Yes, but –" Anson attempted.

"I'm glad I don't have one," Draco said sleepily. He kicked off his shoes.

"Maybeshe'shidingbecausepeoplelikeyoumakefunofherlikeonthetrain," Anson said in one breath.

"Mm," murmured Draco. Anson sighed. Draco had fallen asleep.


	5. Chapter 5 Hermione

"USELESS COW!" Hermione stormed around her room – a single, as privilege of being Head Girl – smacking items off her desk, ripping away her bed covers, even tearing the drapes in her rage. Several minutes later, when everything in the room that was destructible had been destroyed, Hermione stopped. Putting her hands on her hips, her chest heaving, she surveyed the damage.

She didn't remember having thrown books across the room or ripping out pages. Hermione frowned slightly. Damaging books was completely out of her nature. The rest of the room, simply put, was a disaster.

Taking her wand from one of the inner pockets of her robe, Hermione wandered around her room, muttering "_Reparo_!" and carefully picking up damaged pages from her books to sort out later.

Hermione looked over her room again. It looked much better than it had just moments ago. She wondered why she had gone into a rage over such a minor annoyance.

It wasn't Madam Pomfrey's fault, really, that she couldn't figure out what curse or jinx or other form of spell had hit Hermione's face. After all, hadn't the best Healers at St. Mungo's tried their very best and still come up with nothing? Hermione sighed, first in frustration, then again in an attempt to calm herself, trying to force all her frustration and anger to leave her body with her exhalation.

She didn't feel better at all. Gripping her head and closing her eyes tightly, she rolled onto her bed and willed herself to sleep. Perhaps, she thought, I'll have better luck in the library. She wondered why she hadn't thought of that earlier. And who had she been calling a useless cow? Madam Pince, or herself?

---

Hermione awoke in time for dinner. She ran her hands through her hair, attempting to make it more presentable, and less like she had just fallen out of her bed. She looked in her vanity mirror, a kind provision in the Head Girl's room. No, nothing could tame it. Except whatever hair gel she had used in her fourth year, but Hermione certainly did not have time for such frivolity.

She glanced away to her chest at the foot of her bed, but some trick of the light pulled her attention back to her reflection. Was that _white_ hair growing at her scarred temple? Hermione frowned, then decided that she liked it. She looked older, and more like she had seen several battles. Well, she had, and it was about time she had some other, more dignified reminder than just the scar.

Hermione pulled herself away from the mirror. The white was hardly noticeable yet. She wondered how Harry and Ron would view it. They probably wouldn't even notice, not if her whole head went white. No matter. The color of her hair was of no importance, and it certainly shouldn't interfere in her relationship with her friends.

As she walked down the stairs to the common room, she gave a slight shudder as she thought of how Malfoy would taunt her. She could barely stand him, and less so after the role his father had played in Voldemort's second rise to power. But no matter how hard she tried, she still had problems accepting that Draco was not his father.

By the time she had gone down the winding staircase (she had the topmost room in the girls' tower), Hermione was scowling as her thoughts continued to flutter around Malfoy and his insufferable existence. She wondered if she could off him quietly, and whether anyone would notice or care. They probably would.

Entering the common room, she found Harry and Ron sulking in the chairs by the fireplace, neither looking at the other. Ron jumped up as Hermione approached.

"About bloody time you came down," he began, not unkindly. Hermione gave him a tight smile.

"What can I say? You know how us girls need to primp and preen." Hermione felt herself loosen, tension seeping away from her back and shoulders, at this familiar bantering with Ron. Once, she and Ron had been – no, she wouldn't think about it. "Ready?"

Harry stood and stretched lazily. "Yes," he said, "Let's be on our way. Maybe we'll run into Neville."

Hermione and Ron nodded and followed Harry out of the portrait hole. Hermione did hope they ran into Neville – ever since he had gotten his own wand, and had fought alongside Harry and the others against Voldemort and his followers, he had gained much confidence in himself and Hermione thought that he had finally come into his own. The death of his grandmother had been sad, yes, but it seemed she had passed some of her willful strength on to him.

Ron asked suddenly, "Hermione, you don't have any Head Girl duties now, do you?" Hermione looked at him, puzzled, and shook her head no.

"Then what's Malfoy doing with all those kids?" Hermione glanced to where Ron was looking. Her eyes narrowed in distaste.  
Draco had a herd of first years huddled around him, and he whispered conspiring manner. Well, no reason to pass up this chance to berate him. Hermione stalked towards the group; alas, Malfoy caught sight of her, paled considerably, and ushered the children away. They looked back at her, fear clearly painted on their features, before they scurried off. Hermione marked one of them in her head, hoping to corner him later and get to the bottom of this. She knew Malfoy would lie to her.

"I'll catch up with you at dinner. Don't wait for me," she said to Ron and Harry. Ron looked at her uncertainly, but Harry shrugged and strolled towards the dining hall. He, at least, knew she could take care of herself with a sniveling rat like Malfoy. "Ron, go, I'll be fine." He gave a reluctant shrug.

"Sing out if you need me." His eyes searched hers, Hermione didn't know for what. He followed Harry.

Hermione turned towards Malfoy and stalked towards him. Surprisingly, he hadn't snuck away, but had waited to face her.

"Malfoy," she snarled. "What do you think you're doing?"

He gave her an oily grin. "Merely teaching our younger students the joys of living at Hogwarts."

"Don't play games with me," Hermione nearly hissed.

"Oh, get off your high horse, Mudblood. It's no concern of yours." Hermione ignored the insult, she had heard it so many times, but she still wanted to hit Malfoy in the face. She remembered how good it had felt to slap him on the train. And that time in her third year. But violence was not the answer – she quickly suppressed her urge.

"You, corrupting the youth, at this establishment, is certainly my concern!" Hermione felt her right hand curl into a fist. No, she thought, I won't hit him. I will not resort to childish behavior; I will not brawl in the hallways; I will set a good example for the rest of Hogwarts.

Malfoy snorted. "Me? Corrupting the youth? Please. I was telling them about … the Room of Requirement."

It suddenly clicked for Hermione – that's where she could find the answers! She didn't let her joy flicker across her face, though; she didn't want Malfoy to know the gem of knowledge he had unwittingly bestowed upon her.

"What do they need with the Room of Requirement, Malfoy?" Hermione thought she had done well hiding her excitement. The Room of Requirement – of course! Why hadn't she thought of it earlier? Why was she so thick-witted?

Malfoy shrugged in agitation. "Who cares what they use it for, as long as they know it's there."

Hermione stared at him in consternation. "Malfoy," she finally snapped, "That's so irresponsible. You don't know what they could use it for –" Hermione carefully sneered at this point, "maybe something similar to what you did two years ago."

Draco's face contorted with rage. "How dare you – "

Hermione breathed, "Oh, I dare much these days. I dare much." She glared at him. Malfoy looked like he would strangle her, but Hermione held her ground. Show no weakness, she chanted in her head. Show no weakness.

"Just because He's gone, Granger, doesn't mean Mudbloods needn't fear anything," he finally said. He stalked into the hall.

Despite herself, Hermione felt a small shiver. What sort of threat had that been? She waited a few more seconds before entering the hall, too. She told herself it wasn't because she was unnerved by Malfoy's threat.

Hermione found Ron and Harry near the head of the table. She was eager to tell them of her ideas for finding out more information regarding her scar – the library and the Room of Requirement. She was such a dolt – how could she have not thought of it?

As she sat across from Ron, she noticed that Neville was also seated with them. She bit her lip. She didn't want to share her information with Neville just yet. Yes, he was a friend, but he wasn't Ron or Harry. Hermione decided to wait to tell them until they could do it privately. If either option failed to provide answers, she didn't want everyone to know of it.

They all chatted inanely throughout the meal, carefully avoiding the tender subjects of events they had all partaken in during the past year.

Hermione's thoughts centered on her scar. What was it?

---

Hermione had to wait until much later in the evening before she could snatch a private moment with Ron and Harry. They were in the Gryffindors common room, and everyone had gone up to their respective dorms except the three of them. They sat at one of the table to the side of the fireplace.

"Okay," she began, "I think I've figured it out. I haven't tried the library here yet, and I'm sure McGonagall will give me permission to look at all the books in the forbidden sections. And if that doesn't pan out, we can always do the Room of Requirement." She waited eagerly for their responses.

Harry lazily said, "We?" Hermione stared at him. "Just kidding, Hermione. Of course we'll help you. We owe you something after you did our homework for all those years." She thought he almost chuckled. That was certainly an improvement from his surliness earlier in the week.

Ron was eager to agree. "I bet the room where all the students hid their stuff might have some stuff, too."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "That's a great idea. Why didn't I think of that?"

Harry shrugged. "Doesn't really matter. Maybe your brain is decomposing back down to a normal level of intelligence." Ron smiled into his hand.

Hermione tossed her head defiantly. "In that case, I'll still be loads better than the both of you." Harry kicked her gently under the table.

She felt a surge of glee rise up in her – it was almost like normal, before … before Voldemort's second defeat. The price had nearly been almost too much to pay. But it was these moments of normalcy that Hermione treasured. She grinned at Ron and Harry.

Almost like old times.


End file.
